“You know, you’re showing your ignorance as well as your prejudice when it comes to French food. It’s a racial stereotype. They don’t have—”

“Frog’s legs or snails at Le Coq d’Or. I know. Marcel McGuigan told me. It was just a figure of speech.”

“You talked to Marcel McGuigan?”

“Had to do. He was Blaydon’s alibi.”

“But he’s . . . I mean, he’s a foodie GOD. Have you any idea what he can do with sweetbreads?”

“I don’t, actually. I’m not that much into puddings. But I know about McGuigan. Michelin stars and all that. He’s really quite a nice bloke. No pretensions, down to earth. By the way, he offered me a free dinner any time I want. With a guest of my choice.”

Joanna narrowed her eyes. “That’s playing dirty. If you think . . .”

“I told him no, I couldn’t possibly. It might be misconstrued.”

“You’re right, I suppose.”

Banks smiled. “I could always say I’ve changed my mind . . .”

“Don’t hold your breath. Back to the night of the murder.”

Banks drank some more beer and went on. Françoise Hardy gave way to the late great Scott Walker singing “Joanna.”

Joanna MacDonald’s ears perked up on hearing her name. One or two people who knew who she was were looking toward her with silly grins on their faces. “Did you do that to embarrass me?” she whispered at Banks.

“Me? I have no control over Cyril’s playlists,” Banks said. “Don’t you know the song?”

“No.”

“It’s Scott Walker.”

“Just go on with your story.”